


The Mending of Broken Things

by A_J_Crowley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Broken Wings, Caretaking, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), First Aid, Fluff and Angst, Flying, Healing, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Recovery, Whump, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, Wings, aziraphale tries his best to help, crowley has to heal the human way, good omens - Freeform, how to teach a demon to fly again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_J_Crowley/pseuds/A_J_Crowley
Summary: Crowley sucked in a steadying breath, two heralds of midnight black erupting from the sweep of his spine. Feathers clustered as they stretched outward, buffeting the crowding denizens of Hell.Beelzebub sneered, drinking in the sight. The way the perfect colours danced from shades of purple to green, like that of a raven’s plumage. Such beauty afforded to one of the damned was surely sinful.With a satisfied nod, the Prince cast about, eyeing each demon in turn before finally settling on Crowley with a look of brutal finality.“You may begin.”SUMMARY: When Aziraphale is abducted from the bookshop under mysterious orders from Heaven, Crowley ventures into the birthplace of darkness itself in search of answers. Willing to risk his very life to protect the angel from harm, he offers the Lords of Hell a deal they cannot refuse. An alluring pound of flesh. To spare Aziraphale from punishment, Crowley will give up the most sacred part of himself as payment... The chance to break his wings.What comes next is a story that explores how far a demon will go for the one he loves, a recovery undertaken the old fashioned way, and overcoming the unimaginable to soar once more.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 137
Collections: The Good Omens Library





	1. The Prince and the Serpent

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I have had this project in the works for over six months, and am so excited to finally see it released - albeit far more angsty than my previous fics! The majority of it has already been written out, with the completed story expected to be around 7-8 chapters.  
> Future updates will include graphic depictions of injury and violence, however, I will include relevant warnings in the notes when these chapters are published, so readers can choose to skip around these if need be!
> 
> And with that, let's get on with the story...

_Chapter 1: The Prince and the Serpent_

_“Where isssss he?!”_

The cry was a wailing gunshot in the barren pit of Beelzebub’s chamber, ricocheting off the smouldering brimstone walls like shrapnel – bouncing echoes of anguish and betrayal.

Crowley stood before the throne of the demon lord, midnight scales exposed; rippling in undulating waves above the patchwork ivory of his skin. He bared his fangs as he trembled, elongated claws ripping into the soft flesh of clammy palms, dripping black ichor onto the ground with the spluttering hiss of saliva spat on a branding iron.

The Prince of Hell simply cocked their head, ancient joints voicing their discomfort with an audible grating of bones. They smiled; a gnarled, sour thing; blistering sores weeping flaxen goop around the cracked line of their mouth. 

There was a huff of breath. A pause that seemed to stretch and encompass eons. Crowley shifted irritably, withering heart threatening to crack his ribs with the ferocity of its pounding.

He knew that he _shouldn’t_ be here. Hell was no longer an ally to him. For all intents and purposes, he had been branded a traitor to their cause, an abomination, a mad hound they simply did not have the ingenuity to put down… _or so they believed._

Had they uncovered the truth to his deception, his supposed ‘immunity’ to holy water? Had they taken Aziraphale to lure him in – only to close the steel doors against his heels? To shackle his wings and place his head on the proverbial chopping block? Was there already a filthy, porcelain bathtub doused in deadly poison with his name on it?

Crowley shuddered to think.

“He is none of your concern, traitor!” Beelzebub’s gravelly bark yanked him from the void of his own abysmal thoughts. He bristled, a hiss rattling off the edge of his tongue, vibrating against the backs his teeth.

“I think you’ll find that he _isssss!_ ” Crowley snarled, his gangly features elongating into serpentine curves as he roared his challenge. “As far as I was aware, kidnapping angels is a pretty dire offense. _Especially_ when you have been explicitly ordered to _stay out_ of our affairs!”

The flies lingering around Beelzebub picked up their buzzing; a slow, cantering hum of death.

The Prince of Hell flashed a nasty, reprimanding glare, eliciting enough primal force to prompt Crowley to lower his eyes. _Coiling. Submissive._

He knew he was testing his luck.

There were far worse fates that the Pit could conjure up if they so desired, and right now, he was quite literally standing in the palm of their hand, fingers poised to crush him faster than he could worm his way out of trouble.

 _But it was a risk worth taking._ He _had_ to do this. He _had_ to build up his armour of false bravado, to question the might of his master, lest he allow himself to crumble before them.

He _couldn’t_ do that. He couldn’t expose his weakness. _Not now. Not ever again!_

Beelzebub twisted in their seat, considering. They blinked slowly, blackened pupils rimmed with halos of blue dilating as a melee of thoughts cascaded behind them, writhing in the dark, dripping tar pits of their mind.

Finally, after what felt like centuries, they snapped back their head, neck muscles eliciting an unnatural _pop_ with the violence of the motion; the sound of joints dislocating from rigor mortis-induced stiffness.

Crowley bit his tongue, resisting the nauseating burn of bile that threatened to flood his mouth. He wanted to heave, to dump the meagre contents of his stomach that had sat heavy within him ever since his angel’s disappearance, but he battled it down. Deeper and deeper, numbing the ache it caused, the tears that threatened to spill.

 _Hold it together!_ He chided inwardly to the shivering, frightened thing that yowled within. _Stay calm. Don’t let them see you upset. Don’t give them the ammunition to end you._

“The angel, Aziraphale, _is_ in our possession.” Beelzebub’s confession came as a slow, laboured drawl, each word extended to emphasise the severity of what was being said. “He was given to us directly, with a specific set of instructions from the wank-wings Upstairs.”

The demon cast a fleeting glance to the ceiling of the cave, gaze probing at something beyond the darkness to be found there. An unusual flash of discomfort danced behind vile features, paling the grey hues of their blistering skin.

“Even _we_ don’t dismiss orders like that. Not from so high up.”

Crowley froze, blood laced with a sudden, ice-like chill. It made his inner serpent scream.

“So… you’re acting as their _puppet?!”_ Anthony snarled, a faint impression of his wings erupting from the ether; a stained silhouette to mimic the oblivion to be found in a black hole. “The great _‘Prince of Hell’,_ reduced to nothing more than a mere lapdog!”

Crowley paused, before adding with a hint of venom. “ _Pathetic.”_

What came next was not entirely unexpected, although the speed at which it was delivered was startling. After all, demons had been tortured and executed for far less an offence than to insult a lord of Hell.

In an instant, Beelzebub was out of their seat. Crowley didn’t see it happen, per say, just took note of the blurred streak of movement before a powerful, crushing pressure snapped around his throat, driving him to his knees and pinning him in place.

Something hard – the tip of a shoe - struck his gut, forcing itself into the hollow below his ribs until he collapsed, groaning breathlessly in discomfort as the Prince continued to wring the breath from his lungs.

 _“Careful, Raphael…”_ they hissed, a putrid stench of rot seeping from their rattling mouth. “You’ve forgotten your place.”

The mention of his old name stung Crowley; a terrible, scalding agony that seemed to catch at the edges of his tatted soul. Demons were not supposed to incite their renounced Heavenly titles -- summoning forth untold suffering with nothing more than the whisper of the word.

Tears that had threatened over the last few hours began to flow, and Crowley did not try and stop them. He whimpered piteously, dissolving his features into a black cord of limbless scales as he darted from Beelzebub’s grasp.

The demon prince let him, mouth bent crooked in a bared-toothed snarl as the snake slithered out of reach. The two entities began to circle.

“You cannot stop this, Crowley.” Beelzebub growled, the sound a low, terrible buzzing pulled from the depths of their throat. “The angel was entrusted to us for punishment. It seems that there are those that are… _unhappy_ with the outcome of his fate. And they desire retribution.”

They stopped, before adding with a sinister click of their tongue; “They want us to _take_ his wings…”

“Like hell they do!” roared Crowley, tail lashing – a cracking whip against the smouldering rocks. He lunged forward, fangs brandished to strike, but Beelzebub was ready. With the ribbon-like grace of a mongoose, they crumpled to the ground, rolled, and snapped themself upright as the serpent flailed and struck, eventually finding himself snagged in Beelzebub’s grasp once more.

The demon lord lofted Crowley in the air, festering hand compressing the soft ravine of his jaw. This time, gravity worked to their advantage, and Crowley squirmed as his long body threatened to strangle itself.

“Do not _ever_ presume you have the right to speak to me with such disrespect! I am your master, _snake!_ ” the enraged Prince bellowed, slamming the serpent against a jagged column of sulphur crystal with inhuman force.

Yellowed shards rained across the chamber as Crowley shrieked, scales jarred loose from the impact. He faltered from consciousness, the world a hazy gauze, and then Beelzebub was there, sunken eyes leering down at him in a kaleidoscopic nightmare of fuzzy outlines and bloodstained tatters.

Dully, Crowley lashed out, somewhat surprised when his teeth slammed into flesh. He bit down, fangs severing tendons with sickening ease as the taste of demonic blood flooded his mouth.

It coaxed him to his senses like a drug. An opioid of the finest calibre.

“It seems you still have some fight left in you, _traitor._ ” Beelzebub grimaced, watching Crowley with muted fascination as he tore into their shoulder, unbothered by the pain.

Anthony continued his assault, nonetheless. Mauling, thrashing, ripping at the greying skin; making confetti of the grotesque arm… but it barely seemed to do anything at _all._

After a few seconds, Beelzebub reached out and forcefully pried him free. Crowley slackened, his body returning to its human-like shape with the viscosity of sun-baked putty. He was exhausted. His head hurt from the earlier blow. Blood coated his cheeks. Rotten. Festering.

He sloppily licked it away.

“Are you quite finished, you little welp?” The Demon Lord questioned, flies buzzing with renewed ferocity as they stared, seemingly amused by this small act of resistance.

 _“Never…”_ Crowley hissed, fighting off the dark edges that lurked at the corners of his vision. He knew he was no _real_ match for Beelzebub. Hell had been founded on the brutality of starving animals in a fighting pit. And they had not been crowed leader of the Legions for their wit, alone.

“I see.” The Prince crooned softly, dragging a sharpened nail across Crowley’s jaw. He felt a dampness there and realised with numbed horror that he was crying. “You may be immune to Holy Water, snake, but there are still ways I can make sure you suffer for your insolence! I know that the angel is a vulnerability. Your pitiful attempt to fight me has just proven that. Maybe we can take you in? Make you watch while we _break him--”_

 _“I offer my wings!”_ Crowley yowled, his eyes flashing a mottled crimson with the desecrated heat of infernal fire. It must have been quite the sight. Beelzebub visibly flinched.

“ _What did you zzzzay?”_

“I…I call on the right to broker a deal! Offer myself in his place.” Anthony grimaced, attempting to sit up despite the dazzling spots of light that danced behind his eyes like fireworks. “A fair trade, don’t you think?”

Beelzebub flashed a wicked sneer, but hesitated. Crowley seized his chance.

“You were ordered from Upstairs to exact revenge, and I’m damn sure you’re still pissed about the whole failed execution debacle. It was embarrassing, really. The ‘great’ Beelzebub, showed up in front of their _entire_ kingdom, by a lower demon, no less--”

The Prince hissed, raising a hand to strike at his jaw, but Anthony quickly moved on. “—So, I am offering you a way out. I take Azi—I mean, the _angel’s_ punishment, and you save face with Hell. _Break_ my wings. Perform whatever revenge fantasy you wish. I won’t fight back. Won’t even bear my fangs…” Crowley sucked in a shallow breath, daring to meet his old master’s furious gaze. “But, when all is said and done, you leave _us_ alone. _Forever.”_

Beelzebub seemed to consider this, dark pupils boring holes into the demon’s crumpled form. Crowley almost smirked. _He had gotten their attention, after all._

“What’zzzz stopping me from doing both?” The Prince asked after a moment, each word drawn out into a soft, buzzing growl.

Anthony swallowed. He knew he had taken a risk. There was no concrete reason _why_ the Lord of Hell couldn’t punish them _both_ if they so wished, but he hoped the frail power he held over his ‘miraculous’ immunity to utter destruction would still offer him some leverage.

“Becausssse.” He hissed dryly, summoning up an air of confidence he did not, in all honestly, feel. “You still don’t know the full capacity of my power. I may not be strong enough to match you blow for blow, but I am _invincible,_ an everlasting thorn in your side. And right now, I am offering you a chance at redemption. To prove to all these wretched souls in this rotten basement that you are not a coward, nor a simple attack dog for those holier-than-thou assholes in Heaven. _That you still hold the throne…”_ he let his forked tongue flicker out, tasting the air, the irony of the temptation not lost on him. “And I am doing so without a fight. You get your pound of flesh, and I get to wash my hands of this place. Never to challenge _you_ again.”

Crowley was certain he had hit his mark. Beelzebub gave a contemplating little hum, before _ever so reluctantly,_ easing their grasp. Crowley slumped at the release; the exertion of the last few minutes having left him drained. It had been centuries since he’d gone toe-to-toe with anything remotely supernatural, unless unreasonably peeved waterfowl could be considered occult.

“Hmmm. Are you tempting me, _snake?”_ hissed Beelzebub, their voice pinched. It wasn’t a question.

Crowley gasped, coughing up a smattering of sulphuric dust as the Prince clambered to their feet, waving a hand at their mutilated arm. Gouged flesh zipped shut with an audible squelch.

“I would rather call it a mutually beneficial agreement.” Anthony replied, forcing a grin to his lips. It gleamed, sharp and full of ivory-white teeth, pink lips wrinkling with a wince as he snapped a dislodged vertebra back into place. “Agh—So, we have a _deal?”_

It was a sinful hiss, almost intimate, dripping with the allure of forbidden fruit. A coax. A _dare._ Beelzebub snorted, but reached out a blistered hand, hellfire sparking from the tips of their clawed fingers.

Crowley watched as fluid movements left a glowing brand in the air, as though it had been scorched onto the atmosphere; the very fabric of space. A contract sealed with the sigil of the Prince’s true name.

After a moment, Beelzebub waved their hand and the glowing text floated ominously toward Crowley. He squinted his eyes as he read the inscription. He took his time – demons were crafty, after all, they had invented the tedious scrawl of terms and conditions under every seemingly innocent contract – always looking for loopholes they could exploit.

Finally, once he was certain of the agreement, Crowley nodded, igniting his own digits with a smattering of Hellfire.

What he was willing to barter was a punishment possibly _worse_ than the Fall. It would be absolute torture, and the repercussions… Crowley was not ready to dwell on it just yet.

But it was the only way to spare Aziraphale.

The angel would probably _never_ forgive him; a risk the demon would have to take.

With a deep, steadying breath, he lifted his finger to the shimmering text, attempting to ignore the tremor in his legs, the cries of his inner conscience snarling that this was a _mistake._ _A mistake. A mistake!_

 _He will hate you for this…_ They ground out, nipping at his beating heart, clawing behind the eyes. _You will be less than worthless. A burden. Barely a demon at all…_

Crowley grit his teeth... and added his signature.

***


	2. For The Love Of An Enemy Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A moment of calm before the storm...  
> An angel and a demon must face the consequences that come with the forbidden love of a hereditary enemy.

_Chapter 2: For the Love of an Enemy Bound_

Aziraphale barely registered the whinnying creak of wrought iron as the doors to his cell were yanked apart. He almost didn’t pick up the familiar tread of footfalls as they bridged the threshold, echoing in the dank, dripping depths of the cavern.

He had sat idly for hours, lost in the unconscious flow of his memories. He had wanted to see them clearly; to relive them all _one last time._ At the very least, the ones that really _mattered._ Those precious moments stolen in fleeting glances at the park beside the duckpond, or uncovered in a brush of fingertips beneath the crystalline twinkle of chandeliers at the Ritz.

_Those fragile, sacred encounters. The most prized snapshots of his life._

“Aziraphale…?”

A voice. It cut through the festering squalor of the cave that assaulted his senses. The angel cracked open a single, cerulean eye, half expecting the sound to have been a trick of the mind; a child of sensory deprivation birthed in the hollow gut of darkness itself.

_But it wasn’t._

_Not this time._

_Not like the others._

A figure slunk toward him, gangly body a brushstroke of deepest black against the backdrop of gloom. Aziraphale tensed. He recognised those angular curves, the shape of bones that seemed to jut at awkward angles, each step indescribably graceful, yet clumsy; the lope of a weathered greyhound seasoned by the track.

“Crowley?” the name spilled from him with a fresh onslaught of tears and Aziraphale practically crumpled against his binds. He was _exhausted._ And afraid. Terrified of what had become of his demon after their enemies had swarmed the bookshop and dragged him into the Pit.

When Crowley finally reached him, there was little the angel could do to stop himself from sobbing in relief, leaning into the touch as Anthony flung his arms around him, trembling with the same fragility of a feather quaking on the breeze.

“I was so scared, Crowley!” the wail that forced its way out of the Principality’s throat was hardly dignified, but he didn’t seem to care. “I thought they’d gotten to you! I thought you were… T-that you were…!”

Crowley cut him off before he could finish. “It’s okay, angel. _I’m_ okay. I’m right here, see?” 

The demon coiled his grip a little tighter, squeezing Aziraphale against his chest, to the spot where his heart thudded precariously close to the surface. It would help to ground him. At least, for the moment.

“H-How? How did you find me?”

Crowley smiled against the snow-kissed curls. “It wasn’t difficult to put two-and-two together with the demonic sigils still smouldering on your carpet, angel. I know a portal from Hell when I see one.”

There was a low whine of metal behind them, the cry of rusted hinges screaming against the agony of movement. Crowley pulled away, sparing a rueful glance over his shoulder in the direction of the noise.

In the frail light, Aziraphale realised just how drained he looked. His skin waxy and sodden, a dribble of blood staining the crook of his lower lip.

“Crowley, what…?”

“Aziraphale. You _need_ to listen to me.” The authority in the demon’s tone caught the angel a little off-guard. Anthony leaned in close, staring directly into his eyes, golden-sun irises merging with the horizon of his ocean blue ones. “You cannot stop this. No matter what happens. No matter what they do to me. You _cannot_ get involved! Do you understand, Aziraphale?”

The angel felt his blood run cold. “What… what did you _do?”_

“Do you understand?!” The demon’s hiss was keening, desperate. Tears pricked at his sweeping lashes, threatening to fall as a shadow lurked out of the darkness behind him, snarling with a gleam of barbed teeth. An alligator wading in the shallows.

“Time to go, traitor.” came the familiar, accented growl. _Hastur._

“Crowley! What did you DO?!” Aziraphale screamed, no longer caring to keep his panic at bay.

His demon turned, casting him a small, piteous wink. “It was the only way I could keep you safe…”

And with that, he backed away, obediently watching as Hastur moved in to unlock the chains binding the angel to the cavern wall. Aziraphale struggled, thrashing like a bull tethered by the lasso, but he could not escape. The Duke of Hell sneered, tugging at the length of steel still wrapped around his corporation, as the angel shouted and brayed his complete and utter terror.

“Please…” Crowley almost begged as he began to walk towards the cell door, compliant as a worshipper taking orders from their God. “Don’t fight them.”

The sheer anguish in those words made the angel’s heart ache. He wanted to reach out. To claim his sword and smite every venomous soul in this retched place, but the plea in his partner’s frantic whimper was all too much to bear. Aziraphale stilled and allowed himself to be led.

“What a good little angel you are!” Hastur praised grimly, as the small party trudged through a series of claustrophobic tunnels, each path looping and damp, giving the impression of intestines dug out of the earth. Dagon had joined them somewhere along the way, their silverfish scales gleaming as they roughly jostled at Crowley, tugging and grappling at his arms despite his willingness to go wherever the Duke demanded.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the tight corridors opened up into a hazy veil of smoke. Aziraphale coughed and sneezed, trying to dispel the putrid aroma of burning chemicals from his lungs as they clamoured into the mottled, brimstone maw of an enormous chamber.

If the hallways had been the bowels of Hell, then this place had to have been the stomach. 

It was _extraordinary._ The walls sloping in concave arcs around a polished floor of red-stained marble splintered with crags. Pillars of yellow sulphur crystals clustered in steaming hollows, gleaming a sickly hue beneath the jagged ceiling adorned with lances of petrified stalactites.

It was also surprisingly bright. Not in the garish, sun-glare style one was accustomed to in Heaven, but everything moved and flickered in an otherworldly fire-glow. Shadows prowled the space, dancing to the beckon of an unseen flame. It was entrancing, dangerous, like watching the jewelled body of a cobra slithering through the grass in pursuit of a kill.

And then, several of the shadows shifted unnaturally in the cavernous void. They skulked closer, wavering limbs transforming into arms and legs of powerful muscle, snapping jaws blossoming into faces of blistered sores.

Aziraphale stumbled backward, almost tripping over a jutting brow of stone.

Beelzebub themself quickened toward the small legion, accompanied by three cloned entities; short, tightly-packed curls fashioned into whispery horns atop their respective skulls. Had the occasion been any different, Aziraphale may have giggled at the ridiculous fashion statement… but not today.

“We have brought you the traitor and his charge, as requested.” snivelled Hastur, lowering his crooked body into a fractured bow.

The Demon Prince offered a curt nod.

“Good.” They cast a wary glance in Crowley’s direction, before motioning at two of the identical demons at their side. “Secure the angel. See to it that he gets a front row seat to this momentous occasion. And does _not_ get involved.”

The horned clones advanced seamlessly. They snatched the tether of sacred iron from Hastur, tugging Aziraphale along with them as they secured the length of it around a hefty-looking boulder slumped idly in one corner of the room.

The angel gave a low, menacing sound, the primal language of the celestials fashioned millennia ago, when the concept of words had not yet been invented. If the demons understood this, however, they showed no sign, opting to ignore him completely in favour of the commotion brewing in the centre of the Pit.

Crowley stood before Beelzebub, shirt miracled off his lithe frame to expose a diminutive canvas of ivory skin and sinewy muscle. Hastur, Dagon and the third clone had gathered around him, dilated pupils stretched with sadistic glee.

Aziraphale swallowed dryly, yanking against the give of the restraints. The clanging of the chain echoed ominously in the sparse chamber, and even from a distance, he noticed Anthony turn to shoot him a warning look.

“Demon Crowley!” Beelzebub’s voice boomed, loud and demanding, dominating the empty hollow and sending the demons snapping their heads to attention. “You have called your right to form a pact with the forces of Hell, and offered a deal to take the place of the angel, Aziraphale, accepting punishment in his stead, with all interest to be paid in _blood!”_

At this, the surrounding demons writhed hungrily, human teeth elongating into viper-like fangs. Crowley whined, but held firm. He did not so much as extend his claws from the ether.

“You have entered into this contact willingly, and now, your dept is to be paid in full.” Beelzebub stepped back, spreading their arms wide, mimicking a portrait of biblical crucifixion. “Crowley, bare to me your wings!”

 _“No…”_ the hoarse murmur cracked in Aziraphale’s throat as his demon sucked in a steadying breath, two heralds of midnight black erupting from the sweep of his spine. Feathers clustered as they stretched outward, buffeting the crowding denizens of Hell as they practically yowled in excitement.

Beelzebub sneered, drinking in the sight. The way the perfect colours danced from shades of purple to green, like that of a raven’s plumage. _Such beauty afforded to one of the damned was surely sinful._

With a satisfied nod, the Prince cast about, eyeing each demon in turn before finally settling on Crowley with a look of brutal finality.

“You may begin.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we face the full severity of Crowley's punishment and the consequences of what comes after. Buckle up, folks, it's gonna be a rough one.  
> (I promise comfort is coming after the maelstrom of angst).


	3. A Debt Paid in Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: Graphic depictions of violence, injury and blood. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> Okay everyone, this is the chapter where things get pretty intense in the hurt department. The updates following are going to be focusing on recovery, but please mind the tags - Crowley is in for a rough ride.

_Chapter 3: A Debt Paid in Blood_

_"You may begin..."_

Crowley stood frozen, bared chest heaving in the humid swell of the cavern; skin tingling, lungs aching with each jaded intake of breath.

There was a moment of stillness following Beelzebub’s commencing order as the Demon Lord let the echo of their cry bounce along the chamber walls, fading into a reverberating murmur. For a blissful instant, no one dared move.

And then, like the introduction of a lighter to a petrol bomb, Hell, quite literally, broke _loose._

***

Aziraphale was not well-accustomed to the laws and niceties surrounding demonic skirmishes. Or, as it turned out, the apparent lack, thereof. He expected them to be brutal and quick. A few dirty shots, a sucker punch to the gut or throat. A clawed swipe. The brandishing of fangs.

He had witnessed a few occasions when Crowley had stumbled into the bookshop, limping despite his best efforts. He would usually brush Aziraphale’s concern aside, begging of him not to fuss. That he simply needed a place to rest.

The angel knew better. Recognised the dull quake of fear in his knees, the etchings of pain crinkling the borders of the mouth. He never told Crowley this, of course, he would simply hold the demon through the night, bidding him pleasant dreams of unconsciousness as the injuries lurking beneath his tatted clothes sealed shut with the gentle, stinging grace of a divine prayer or two.

He had never actually _seen_ the marks of violence. The bloodstained gouges of taloned fingers scouring delicate flesh. The vivid bites that carved out sensitive hollows – sitting in the crook of the arm, the softness of the belly, the dents between the ribs.

 _Now,_ he no longer had that luxury of ignorance.

In the centre of the chamber, the three demons had descended on Crowley like a pack of Hellhounds maddened by the shrill of a wounded animal. Snapping, clawing, tearing into him with rumbling growls and chortles of excitement.

Crowley shrieked. He staggered, curling in on himself, attempting to shield the delicate areas of his stomach where organs clustered beneath the skin.

Aziraphale wanted to _scream!_

_Why wouldn’t he fight back? Was he actually allowing himself to be beaten in such a way? To be ripped apart and spat out, again and again, without the opportunity to defend himself?!_

The thought made the angel retch.

“Please! _Please, stop!”_ Aziraphale wailed, rattling against the chains that bound him. The two demons gripped him all the tighter, forcing him to his knees. _“Stop hurting him! PLEASE!”_

But there was no relenting. No notice of his pleas.

After what seemed like an eternity of frantic scuffling, the commotion died with an abrupt silence. Somehow, Crowley was still on his feet, but his body swayed dangerously, face pale and agonised. Chucks of flesh had been ripped from his torso and back, brutal marks where fangs had cut at the muscle and clashed against bone. The scent of blood was everywhere, the dull patter of it hissing against the smouldering brimstone, sinking into the crags, wrecked corporation on the verge of collapse.

The demons had calmed quite considerably since the start of the frenzy, now circling their plaything with vicious intent, the animalistic thrill that had consumed them but moments before tempered into a jagged spire of malice.

Aziraphale realised with a start that the initial beating was simply a warmup, an expulsion of energy to sooth their instincts in preparation for the real punishment. _The game was only just beginning._

“You don’t look so good, _Crawley…”_ purred Hastur, shaking his matted, blond curls, releasing a spray of fine crimson into the air. The ichor settled on Crowley, peppering the damp wane of his skin.

 _“_ It seems you aren’t as powerful as we thought.” Dagon continued, a shiver rippling through them as they flexed a single, clawed finger. _“_ The great _Serpent of Eden._ As easily breakable as the weakest of us. Nothing more than a snivelling worm!”

“Enough toying with it!” the cloned demon snapped, driving a powerful kick into the side of Crowley’s kneecap. He toppled with an agonised yelp. _“_ S’time we teach this traitor the meaning of what it is to be damned!”

And with that, they set about their work.

The process was far more _human_ now, a savage assault domineered by powerful kicks and punches, calculated to inflict the cruellest suffering imaginable.

Aziraphale attempted to shuffle closer, tears streaming as the demons tortured his partner, driving their blows into him with such wretched fury, a rivulet of blood began to seep from the edge of Crowley’s mouth.

His eyes glazed, adopting a misty quality and bones shattered beneath a booted foot. He _screamed._

The sound was terrifying. A high-pitched bellow that keened on the borders of the audible plain, so loud, it sent the angel sprawling onto his side, grinding his head into the rocks if only to help ease the clamour that rendered his heart in two.

By the time Aziraphale was able to look up again, Crowley had managed to crawl a few feet toward him. He was no longer able to stand, his leg twisted grotesquely out of place, but his eyes still held the same fierceness they had done in the cell, though now half-lidded with pain and fatigue.

 _S’okay, angel…_ The words poured into Aziraphale’s mind like the trickling of water from a faucet, and he clutched at them desperately, feeling the finest thread of telepathic communication stretch and pull between them.

 _Everything will be alright. I… I promise. It’s almost over--! T_ he thread snapped. And so, did Crowley’s wrist.

In a particularly cruel move, Dagon had brought down their heel on the hand Anthony was using to drag himself toward Aziraphale. It dislocated with a resounding _crack!_

 _“Agh!”_ Crowley sobbed, a flash of bloodied teeth baring as tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. 

Aziraphale lunged, managing to drive one of his captors to their knees, scuffing his face against the jagged floor, but their grip never faltered, and the angel only succeeded in sprawling onto his side.

He writhed as Dagon continued to grind his foot onto Crowley’s mangled wrist, his demon wailing, too overcome by the suffering to keep up the pretence of his trademark bravado.

 _“What’s the matter, little snake?”_ sneered Hastur, as he swept up to Crowley and snatched a handful of auburn curls, forcing his head up. Dagon finally relented, releasing him, and Anthony slumped as the toad demon drew back his fist.

He brought it down with a dull _thwack,_ the blunt force spraying blood.

Crowley went limp, his corporation finally surrendering as Hastur continued the assault, striking at his face, over and _over,_ until the sound of impact became wet.

Aziraphale could not look away, desperate tears carving across his cheeks in golden rivulets _. He would kill them all. Every. Last. One. No matter how long it took, he would wipe their wretched souls from existence, until their presence became nothing more than an ill-fated memory. A cautionary tale of the angel who went mad._

_Hell would pay for what they had done. They would learn to fear his wrath. And Aziraphale… well. He would learn what it is to become fear itself._

“Enough!”

Beezlebub’s clipped command jarred the angel back from his rapidly spiralling fantasies. Crowley hung motionless in Hastur’s grip, a sickening gurgling noise that panted from his throat the only indication of life.

The Duke’s fist still loomed dangerously close, but it was reluctantly lowered as Beelzebub stepped forth, hand outstretched in a silencing gesture.

“It is time… Spread his wings.”

Aziraphale gasped in horror, his blue eyes streaming as the horde hoisted Crowley onto his knees, tearing at his sensitive feathers with cruel, rendering fingers.

_It was too much! Too much!_

_“Please!”_ Aziraphale begged, no longer caring at how pitiful he must have looked, this broken warrior of the Lord pleading at the heels of demons. “Please! You can have my wings! You can _tear_ them out! Just… just _stop!”_

The Prince of Hell leered down at him as they suspended Crowley’s primaries, blistered hands coiling around the upper bone in a harsh, unforgiving snare.

Crowley winced, amber eyes snapping to Aziraphale, hazy and unfocused.

“Don’t look…” He whispered, and the angel had just enough time to shut his eyes as Beelzebub pulled apart their grasp with flourish of demonic strength, snapping Crowley’s wing in two.

The demon did not cry out. Didn’t even make a _sound._ He simply jolted forward, every muscle contracting with trembles so violent, the edges of his body began to blur in a haze of uncontrolled movement.

Quick as lightning, Beelzebub applied the same procedure to the second wing, the magnificent feathers drooping as their support crumbled, and The Prince released their grip.

Crowley collapsed to the ground, the sound reverberating in the sullen, echoing silence of the chamber.

“The deal is complete.” announced Beelzebub, a surreal buzz emanating from their tone as they nodded to the legion, who backed away, heeding the call of their master. They seemed entirely unphased by what had just transpired, as if the show of grotesque violence were nothing more serious than a squabble between children. “Release the angel.”

The clones at his back relaxed their hold, and Aziraphale surged forward, falling beside Crowley with a gentle _whoosh_ of soot that escaped from beneath his soft corporation. He immediately struggled to his knees as the cursed chains that had bound him vanished, but the demons stepped forward, stifling any hint of divine retribution as the Prince slowly began to trudge away.

“I wouldn’t try to fight.” They called back, reaching the entrance to the tunnel that the party had arrived through mere minutes before.

 _A lifetime ago,_ thought Aziraphale.

“If you want our contract to remain valid, I suggest you leave quickly. And get that traitor _out_ of my sight.”

With a sharp click of their tongue, the remaining demons exited the chamber, clamouring into the dark, dripping tunnels like beetles fleeing between the roots of some ancient birch.

Aziraphale watched them go, noting every face as he formulated a visual checklist in his mind. He would see them pay for what they had done, but _first--_

First, he had to get his demon to safety, and _away_ from Hell.

***


	4. The Agony of Thy Holy Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: The next couple of chapters will primarily cover the process of Aziraphale trying to heal Crowley. This means there will be lots of graphic depictions of injury and distress. Aziraphale is trying his best. :'(

_Chapter 4: The Agony of Thy Holy Light_

Crowley let out a strangled moan as Aziraphale slid his hands beneath his battered corporation, the low grumble rising to a shriek as the angel hoisted him off the ground. Anthony clawed at his prized waistcoat, bloodied fingers smearing the timeless fabric as he writhed in the strong embrace, but the principality did not falter, cradling his demon as gently as he could. Crowley’s broken wings dangled listlessly, the mangled primaries long enough to scrape against the ground, and the angel winced inwardly was they grated on loose stone.

Gently, _carefully,_ Aziraphale picked his way through the tunnels, wondering just how long it would be before they could taste the smoggy air of London once more. Beelzebub hadn’t _exactly_ left him with a map, after all. Just the simple command to _leave_ as quickly as possible.

As a precaution, the angel opened his celestial eyes; a bloom of cerulean irises scattered across his limbs like hundreds of jewelled sapphires. They could sense the dull glow of the surface world filtering through the smoke and darkness – and he followed it, turning where the light dimmed and keeping true where it grew faintly brighter, ignorant to the gleaming stares that leered from sheltered crags and perilous overhangs in the chasm walls.

By the time they had reached the rusted, steel doors of the lift that would take them to Earth, Aziraphale was panting from exertion. Keeping a secure hold on Crowley as he wriggled and wept had proved to be its own brand of torture, sanding the edges of his very soul, leaving him hollow and raw.

 _This was his punishment,_ the angel thought, fighting back a fresh onslaught of emotion, a tight ball at the back of the throat. _To hold his demon, aware that every movement wrought a jolt of intolerable agony, a pain he could not sooth._ Not yet. Not until they were _out_ of Hell's clutches.

As the ancient doors of the contraption rolled open with an ominous creak, Aziraphale bustled inside, planting a chaste kiss to Crowley’s temple.

“It’s alright now, my love.” He breathed, startled by the crack in his voice, the fleeing tears that refused to stay bound, dripping onto his demon’s upturned face. “I’ll make this right. I promise. You’re safe. And no one will _ever_ hurt you again.”

***

Neither angel nor demon took much stock of when it happened. One moment, the interior of the lift shuddered in the same way a shuttle exits the Earth’s atmosphere, jostling them with the ravaging might of the sea. And then… there was light.

Aziraphale stood in a glowing circle of runes etched into the timber floorboards of the bookshop, faint wisps of smoke curling at his heels.

Crowley groaned piteously, whimpering as a stray ember settled on his swollen cheek. The angel hastily moved to smother it, trembling as taut, angelic muscles threatened to buckle under the strain, wracked by the throes of human emotion. Of exhaustion and _fury._ Fear and sadness and… _guilt._

Crowley had taken his place! He had offered up his wings for him. Suffered through a punishment he was wholly undeserving of. And now, _he_ was paying the price.

_Aziraphale’s price._

The angel stumbled, head swirling, ensnared in the myriad of his own, belittling consciousness. _How could he have let this happen? How could he have allowed Crowley to go through with it?!_ The wretched thoughts ate at him. Savaging his heart, consuming the threadbare divinity of his ethereal soul.

_He should have fallen for this! He should have begged for it!_

Another soft, choking whine from the demon jarred Aziraphale from his practise of self-loathing. _There would be time for that later._ Time for hatred and damnation in the quiet, waning hours of dawn, when Crowley was safe and whole once more, lost to contented dreams in the crook of the angel’s wing.

_Later. But not now._

With a skirting glance at the flames smouldering at his feet, Aziraphale stepped aside and the runes vanished from existence, the door to the bookshop simultaneously locking with an audible _click._ Another wave of a hand and the curtains were drawn, plunging the cramped interior into darkness.

Aziraphale held his breath.

He had never taken much note of the ominous atmosphere that came with moonless evenings. When the shadows grew so thick one would have thought themselves blind, if not for the faint guidance of the stars to ebb at their fears and tether oneself to safety.

Those were _human_ fears. Irrational. Possibly even foolish.

Aziraphale had never been afraid of the darkness. Of the silence. And yet, now, encompassed in the musty gloom of his own home, he felt a shiver ripple through his spine.

It was too much like the claustrophobic caverns of Hell. The stale scent of wood and decaying pages only emphasising the imaginary drip of stagnant water trickling from the ceiling – the finest whiff of burning still lingering from candles long since snuffed out.

“Let there be light!” Aziraphale barely manged to choke out.

All at once, the shadows scuttled backwards, oily tendrils retreating into sheltered corners, gathering in bone sharp crevices of cobwebbed shelves and towering bookcases, pursued by the ethereal essence that settled in the centre of the bookshop like some divine harvest moon.

The angel blinked, scrunching his eyes against the sudden glare as Crowley yelped in his grasp. Without thinking, Aziraphale had squeezed Crowley to his chest, applying pressure to already-tenderised skin.

With a mumbled apology, he immediately loosened his grip.

The demon visibly relaxed with the motion, though a wet, gurgled breath escaped him as he slumped. Aziraphale peered down in escalating horror, tilting Anthony’s head forward just in time as a congealed upchuck of blood slithered from his panting mouth, followed immediately by a series of hacking, tremoring coughs.

“Oh, my dear boy. I’m so sorry!” The angel felt his lower lip wobble as he carefully moved Crowley toward an ancient, mahogany table, that, rather miraculously, appeared suddenly large enough to support his outstretched form.

Aziraphale waited patiently until the worst of the wheezing had ceased, before gently depositing the demon; smoothing his battered wings so they could stretch unbidden at his sides.

“It will be over soon. I promise.” He soothed, combing the mussed feathers as Crowley choked out yet another agonised sob, a fresh spurt of ichor dribbling from the edge of his mouth.

His face looked so unlike the one Aziraphale had come to recognise better than his own. The sharp edges of his porcelain features had been stamped out, cracked in a fusillade of blows, softened by the swollen bulges of purpling bruises; golden eyes with sparkling hues rich enough to rival the sun reduced to dull half-moon slivers beneath the patchwork of inflammation.

A torrent of righteous fury roiled in Aziraphale’s stomach as his mind wandered back to the dark oath he’d forged. _He would kill them. He would brandish his sword and condemn them all to extinction for what they had done!_

 _But not now. Not yet._ He remined himself. First and foremost, he needed to help restore the broken pieces of his demon and kiss them whole. To take away the pain written in every taut, twitching muscle of his corporeal form. _His valiant, selfless guardian._ Forever suffering on his behalf.

With a steadying breath, Aziraphale closed his eyes and cupped out his hands, tapping into the celestial flow of energy that cascaded about him - invisible tears wept by God, Herself. He let them gather in his open palms, coaxing each drop with the silence of prayer, until he could feel the current lapping at his wrists, overflowing and seeping between the cracks of his fingers. And then, with the intricate grace of a divine surgeon, he funnelled it toward Crowley’s body, pouring the unseen power of his miracle unto him, bathing the demon in his healing grace.

For a moment, Crowley gasped as his spine ached against the table, breath stuttering in frantic little hisses as instinct drove him to recoil from the light. Aziraphale placed a firm, anchoring hand against his chest, securing him in place. He knew that the power of such sacred essence must have been extremely unpleasant, but he couldn’t let up. A few seconds of discomfort, and it would all be over. Every cut. Every bruise. Purged from his skin. Shattered fragments of bone knitted whole once more as gaping wounds and unsightly lesions were sewn deftly shut.

Then, Crowley could _rest._ Sleep safe without agony in Aziraphale’s arms. Protected. Cherished. _Loved._

 _“A-Azir-phale! S-s-sssstop!”_ Crowley’s desperate plea cut through the silence, resonating through the musty air as a hoarse, gasping sob. The angel gritted his teeth. Shut his eyes as tears dewed his lashes. _He had to keep going! He had to! Just a moment more and it would end!_

Only, it _didn’t._

Crowley blanched out an agonised scream. He trembled violently, convulsing under the searing heat of sacred energy, perspiration oiling his skin. Aziraphale watched in muted terror as he noticed the state of the demon’s battered face. The healing miracle was performing its duty, but something was… _wrong._

The wounds were _transforming._ Sealing closed one moment, before being viciously ripped open the next. Again, and again. A re-infliction of the pain, threatening to tear his demon apart with tortured screams and jittering spasms of agony.

The dawning light of realisation nearly felled Aziraphale, who halted the flow of his miracle with a desperate curse of frustration. He stumbled backwards, watching with wide, anxious eyes as Anthony jerked against the wooden table, spine bowing in a bent, crooked bridge - before collapsing into stillness.

The angel stared, limbs leaden, bone-chilled with dread. _“C…Crowley?”_

The reply came in the form of a ragged moan as the demon blanched a warbling exhale. Aziraphale bustled over, clasping at the fingers of his unbroken hand with a delicate squeeze.

Crowley’s eyelids flickered tiredly at the touch. _“Pleasssse._ D-Don’t ever do that again…”

 _He’s still here, thank Someone!_ Aziraphale thought to himself, nodding anxiously as the demon mumbled once more, purging a weak snarl from his throat.

“There’ssss… A ward on me.” He growled faintly, forked tongue darting to lick at the bloodied bulb of his lip. “S’was a trade, angel. A binding agreement with Hell. No amount of miracles can heal what’sssss been done. Not unlessss the ward is broken by the one who forged it.”

“Beelzebub.” Aziraphale noted grimly.

It wasn’t a question, just a statement of the fact. The angel slipped his grasp from Crowley’s hand, cerulean eyes - once clear as crystal - now turbulent, crackling with lightning amongst the stone-cut shards of devastating blue. “I need to go. Convince them—no! _Make_ them change their mind.”

Aziraphale turned abruptly, clearly preparing to leave, but was halted by a frail pawing at his wrist. 

“Angel, no! _Please,_ _listen to me!”_ Crowley begged, coughing anew as the movement spurred an upheaval of saliva and blood to trickle down his chin. “That’s madness! Even if they _would_ accept a new deal, they’d… they—” he stopped himself, as though the mere thought was inconceivable to him. “I… I suffered so you didn’t _have_ to! Please, angel! Please… just stay with me _here…”_

An unspoken _I need you_ lingered in the air as the demon jerked, wave after wave of agony making him wheeze and gasp and battle for air he didn’t particularly need, but found himself yearning, nonetheless.

Aziraphale wanted to scream. _Why was it so unfair? Why did Crowley have to love him in such a way? To take the beatings, to be so unfaltering in his willingness to shoulder the pain, when Aziraphale was not permitted to do the same?_

In some deep-seated part of him, the angel knew. He knew that Crowley was right. If he waltzed back into Hell now, there would be no guarantee that he could broker a deal, or the consequences to be had of purposely intruding on enemy territory. They could take him again. _They could try._ And Crowley would be left alone to wonder, unable to miracle himself well as his corporation slowly mended in the dust and the darkness, broken bones binding at awkward angles, misshapen and crooked, never to regain the shape they once knew.

 _No._ He wouldn’t let that happen. Not to _his_ demon.

“Alright, my love.” Aziraphale managed at last, gingerly dabbing the blood from the edge of Crowley’s lips. “I’ll stay. You need not fear me leaving you. Not tonight.”

Despite it not being a promise of indefinitely, Anthony visibly relaxed at the angel’s words, offering his best, wilted smile.

“But… we still need to address the matter of your wounds.” Aziraphale continued, noticeably more hesitant than before. The change in the warmth of his tone was quite jarring to say the least.

Crowley immediately tried to object, golden irises dilating at the recollection of the heavenly onslaught he’d just experienced, but Aziraphale quickly held out his hands in a placating gesture.

“I am well aware we can’t miracle you better, my dear, but that’s not our only option. We may have to implement the old way of doing things. The human way.”

Aziraphale swallowed at this. Humanity had taken great strides in the fields of medicine over the centuries, conjuring up all manner of clever ways to help alleviate the things that ailed them, but their methods still appeared reasonably crude, at least, to angelic standards. And, without the knowledge of a trained doctor; though Aziraphale may have argued himself a seasoned amateur of the practise; he was somewhat limited in his options. _Especially_ when it came to the unpleasant business of setting bones and stitching gashes, without the luxury of anaesthetic to lull Crowley into temporary oblivion.

“You’re scared. I can ssssence it…” the demon piped cautiously, signalling to Aziraphale that he’d been quiet for far too long.

The worn principality shook his head, trying desperately to cover the little tremble in his voice. “I’m fine, my love. It’s just that this next part won’t exactly be pleasant… for _either_ of us.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are enjoying this! It's rough - but I swear the comfort is coming! ;)


	5. The Pain That Brings Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: There are graphic depictions of injury and medical procedures in this chapter. Please be aware of this before proceeding.

_Chapter 5: The Pain That Brings Salvation_

_“This next part won’t exactly be pleasant, for either of us…”_

Aziraphale’s voice shook, a sombre waver to his tone as though in mourning. Crowley shivered. It was an unconscious reaction, but the angel seemed to pick up on it nonetheless.

So, his demon was afraid then, too.

***

After a beat, Anthony nodded.

“It has to be done.” He met Aziraphale’s eyes before adding; “I _trust_ you.”

The love and sincerity the angel found in those molten depths was almost overwhelming. He could feel it, radiating off Crowley like heart from the sun, scorching and divine in equal measures. It practically _burned._

Without another word, the angel turned to set up his preparations. He wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. He didn’t think Crowley would discorporate from his injuries, but he wasn’t about to wait and find out.

With a snap of his fingers, a warm bowl of water _(unblessed, of course)_ and several clean towels manifested on Aziraphale’s writing desk. Another click summoned forth a plethora of bandages, soothing ointments, splints and sterile instruments. The angel doubted he would require them all, but he took the liberation to miracle up every conceivable option his holy arsenal would bestow. _Frivolous miracles be damned!_

Once the small desk had been sufficiently cluttered with all manner of supplies, Aziraphale finally turned his attention to the door. Clasping his hands together as if in prayer, he recited a few verses of ancient Enochian scripture. A pale, cobalt light ruptured along the seam of the wood, spreading outward to skim at the edges of the frame and illuminate the bookshop’s walls and ceiling, before vanishing completely.

Crowley arched his head with a start, wincing at the sudden motion.

“A little ward of my own.” Aziraphale told him, sensing the question before it had a chance to depart the demon’s lips. “It’ll soundproof the bookshop. Make certain that no passers-by will be able to hear… _anything untoward.”_

 _You scream._ He noted quietly to himself, the grisly weight of what was to come hanging heavy in the stillness of the room. _The calm before the storm._

Carefully, Aziraphale returned to Crowley’s side. He took note of the atrocious state of his body, visually mapping the areas in dire need of attention, and those that could wait, at least, until the more pressing injuries had been tended.

“I…I think it best if I start with your corporeal form.” The angel stated dully, eyes flitting over the misshapen angles of dislocated joints. The position of his left wrist was most certainly concerning, bent to an unnatural position, dangling detached. So too was his right leg, but with the compression of his tight-fitting jeans, Aziraphale could not fully assess the extent of the damage.

_He would deal with that later._

Summoning the desk toward him with the aid of a small miracle, the principality gingerly clasped the battered hand in his own. Crowley hissed as it was lifted off the mahogany surface, but Aziraphale’s grasp was firm and strong. He could _not_ lose his nerve. Not before they’d even begun.

“Crowley, I need you to stay as still as you can for me.” The angel explained, strengthening his grip on the swollen budge where the joints had separated grotesquely out of place. “I won’t lie to you. This will hurt rather terribly, my dear, but I’ll be as quick as I can... Are you ready?”

Anthony took a few steadying breaths through his nose, gritting his teeth as a fresh barrage of coughs threatened to rattle him. He nodded.

“Y-Yeah, angel. I’m—”

Aziraphale didn’t wait to hear the end of it. With a deft, sweeping motion, he pushed upward against the mangled wrist, his effort rewarded with a sickening _pop!_

Crowley absolutely howled. His head swung back against the tabletop, tears streaming, nightmarish squeals growing in pitch and intensity until they were ripped from him completely. As he quietened, the angel reached out, gently carding through the tangled locks that clung to his demon’s brow, the fiery curls drenched with sweat.

“I’m so sorry, my love…” he shushed gently, waiting until Crowley’s ragged whining died away, slow and wavering. He continued to pet his hair as he grabbed a role of bandage, and _ever so carefully_ , set to work cleaning and binding the joint, enshrouding the purpling skin with the softest cotton.

“You bastard! Y-you could have _warned_ me…” Crowley murmured as Aziraphale deposited the newly bound wrist and shuffled to the bottom of the table, already prepared to move on.

“I think you’ll find I did. I just… _exaggerated_ the timing a tad.” The angel lowered his eyes in a guilty expression, looking every bit like a dog who had chewed the morning newspaper. “I just didn’t want you to tense up. It would have been rather more difficult for me to manoeuvre the joint if you had anticipated it coming.”

He tapped his palm against the bloodied fabric securing Crowley’s leg and clicked his tongue in consideration. A set of large scissors appeared in his grasp, and Anthony shuffled back in fear.

“It’s alright,” the angel whispered, his voice quiet and achingly reassuring. He placed his hand on Crowley’s jeans. “I just need to cut back some of the fabric to see what I’m working with. Unless you would prefer me to try miracling them off?”

Crowley shook his head, his face having paled noticeably in the last few minutes – yet a faint blush still managed to paint his cheekbones at the thought. As much as he adored the idea of the angel ridding him of his clothes, he’d always hoped it would be under… purely _recreational_ circumstances, and certainly _not_ with an obscenely large pair of scissors so perilously close to his skin.

“S’alright. Best not take any chances.”

Aziraphale offered his warmest smile, albeit a tad brittle, and proceeded to snip at the once beautiful, black material. It fell aside with some coaxing from the blades, the flaps splitting apart to reveal the state of the wound beneath.

The angel swallowed dryly, trying his best not to gawk at the sight.

It was as exactly as he had feared, the flesh ripped open to reveal a sliver of sharp, ivory bone that had ruptured from the skin. Blood oozed from the tear, congealing into the hollow folds of cloth like some nightmarish goblet.

 _“Oh…_ Oh, dear Lord!” Aziraphale clapped a hand to his mouth. He glanced up at Crowley. The demon’s whinnying gasps were ratcheting up again at the sting of cool air against the open wound.

“What I mean to say is… it’s… nothing that can’t be sorted! Yes, that’s it…” Aziraphale corrected hastily, secretly chiding himself for the coarse reaction.

He had to be strong. He _owed_ it to Crowley. The angel could not be the kind-hearted bookseller that was his nature. Gentle Brother Francis held no place here. Neither did the soft, food-loving principality. _No._ He had to be _Aziraphale_ , Heaven’s righteous warrior, Guardian of Eden. He had seen battle. Allowed its feral cry to fuel him as he swept across warzones; smelt its spilt ichor, let it soak into his pores. And as the blood from Crowley’s leg trickled onto his fingers, he realised this held little difference.

The rule of war was to work quickly. Keep going. Never look down if you want to make it back home. He had to endure that way of thinking _now._

And so, the demon yowled as the leg was lifted, and cried as it was set in place with a _snap!_ Aziraphale moved feverously, heart splinted, but resilient as steel. He offered small words of comfort where he could, reinforcing to Crowley just how brave he was being, how incredibly strong he was to bear it… _not that the poor demon had much choice in the matter._

With the breaks firmly immobilised in well-padded bandages and casts, Aziraphale finally set about the gruelling slog of tending to the more superficial injuries, numerous though they were.

Over the course of several hours, he cleaned, stitched, taped, and rubbed poultice over the wounds, ensuring each received the same level of care as the one before it. Crowley did his best to stifle the agonised commentary that threatened under the angel’s ministrations, but as time wore on, his resolved crumbled, until all he could do was scream, and then, perhaps blessedly, sob in silent murmurs when his throat was too raw to offer nothing more than a brittle squeak of distress.

During the stitching of a partially nasty gash to his ribs, Crowley had stilled, finally losing consciousness, and Aziraphale offered up a small prayer to whatever deity may have offered such mercy to a demon.

In the wake of the temporary stillness, he endeavoured to complete the nasty business of aligning tattered things.

***

Dawn broke, the rising sun casting faint turquoise light through the curtains of the bookshop. Amid the dust and shelves, an angel dabbed his brow and sat back for the first time since his gruelling ordeal had begun.

Crowley lay unconscious, ragged, swollen and sore, but whole, nonetheless. Gauze formed a patchwork over his body, thick strips of white against greying skin clammy with sweat, but the bleeding had finally stopped. _A small victory._ It would, of course, take time for the injuries to heal, several weeks by the angel’s estimation, but Crowley could do so safe in the knowledge that he _would_ recover, and that Aziraphale would be with him every step of the way.

The angel allowed himself a moment to steady his core; the ragged beating of the heart that thrummed like a wild sparrow in his chest. He breathed in the familiar aroma of parchment and timeless oak as he shut his eyes against the morning’s insistent light, and for the very first time in his immortal existence, Aziraphale longed for sleep. A temporary oblivion to whisk him away, even if for a few fragile moments. But he could not let himself… not just yet. There was only one thing that remained to do, albeit the most dreaded of all.

Miracling up a clean bowl of water, clear and untainted by blood, Aziraphale sheepishly approached the demon’s wings. They were shockingly abused. The delicate bones designed to keep the limb rigid during flight collapsed inward, marred by feathers that had been snapped or ripped out completely, leaving only patches of bruised skin in their absence.

The angel swallowed, his tongue thick in his mouth, and adjusted his eyes to risk a glimpse into the astral plain where Crowley’s true form resided. The damage to be found there was no less atrocious, and Aziraphale choked at the sight. Whilst Crowley’s corporal wounds looked hellish, they were only present on the physical plain, but those of his wings went far deeper, traversing the material to harm the essence of his very soul.

_To have suffered such a fate on one’s true form._

Overwrought sobs of fury tore from the angel's throat, gasping and wretched. The repercussions of such severe injuries were sinisterly boggling, and the longer he delayed the mending, the less hopeful the outcome became.

If Aziraphale didn’t set the break now, his friend would never fly again. That was an ineffable certainty. If he did, there was still no concrete guarantee that the intricate bones could recover enough to regain the strength they once had. The prognosis was slim, but acting quickly offered a sliver of hope.

 _That was the punishment,_ the angel supposed. _To cripple and to maim._

If it had been Aziraphale laying there, well, he would never have been able to reach Heaven again. It whispered of the archangels’ true intentions in condemning this barbaric sentence. He would have been trapped, earthbound, forced to gaze up at birds in green-eyed envy as they glided effortlessly overhead. He would never again taste the wind in his feathers, the soft-spoken coolness of cloud vapor drifting over his skin. An angel, unable to partake in the most basic instinctual desire of all of Heaven’s creatures. To soar.

_It was a fate perhaps worse than Falling._

And Crowley. How could he ever visit his beloved stars again, if he were rooted to the Earth? _No._ Aziraphale would not allow him to be caged. It was simply imperceptible. He would swear an oath to God Herself, offer up the golden sheen of his sacred blood, a fragment of his immortal divinity. However long it took, he would see to it that his sweet, selfless companion be made complete once more.

They had already stolen so much from him. _Heaven. Hell._

He would _not_ let them take this to.

Dragging a chair beside Crowley’s left wing, the angel sat and gently lifted the appendage onto his lap, rousing a distressed moan from the unconscious demon. It drooped, unnaturally limp, and Aziraphale examined the limb with odd combination of concern and reverence. He had never been this close to Crowley’s true form, certainly never near enough to graze so much as a feather. Now, he was holding the most vulnerable part of him in his arms, shielding the delicate plumage as though it were the most precious thing in all the universe.

It was going rather fast, indeed.

As carefully as he could, the angel prodded at the mangled wing, gliding his palm over the dark feathers, searching for hidden wounds or fractures. The soft, tentative movements through the fluffy down roused plaintive mumbles from Crowley, and Aziraphale offered a weak smile, silently promising to revisit those areas under better circumstances.

When he was certain the worst of the damage had been accounted for, the angel nervously took a portion of bone in each hand and twisted sharply, wrangling the shards together in a grating wrench.

He did not expect the thunderous _snap_ that followed, nor the deafening screech of the demon’s celestial voice. He did not foresee Crowley lurching off the table, wild-eyed with claws extended, as he thrashed and gouged and shrieked, savaging Aziraphale’s arm that had reached out to pin him down. 

“Crowley, _stop!”_ he cried, prying the taloned fingers from his shredded bicep. “Y-you’re ripping your stitches!”

If he heard him, however, he showed no sign. Crowley was writhing like a creature possessed; a Kraken purged from the ocean’s infinite depths. The air filled with a high-pitched wail, far beyond the limitations of human hearing, as his very soul screamed in an Enochian tongue thought long forgotten by Heaven and its angels.

Aziraphale plugged his ears, throwing his head back in agony. He wanted it to stop! _Stop!_ **_Please stop!_**

It ended with the abruptness of death. Crowley lay twitching in shock, gurgling raggedly as tears streamed in silver rivulets down his cheeks. He did not seem to be much more aware of his surroundings than a man trapped in limbo, eyes gauzy and unfocused, as though ensnared in the toils of a nightmare.

“My dear…?” Aziraphale whispered, low and steady, as he soothingly reached out to take Crowley’s hand in his own. But the very brush of his skin made the demon shriek in terror, abused jaw snapping with fangs far longer than would be considered appropriate for human anatomy.

Quick as lightning, Aziraphale snatched back his fingers.

_This wouldn’t do. Not at all._

Crowley was awake with no indication he even _recognised_ him, let alone what was happening. Aziraphale couldn’t very well work on him like this. He needed help.

Of course, one couldn’t just stroll into a hospital demanding to see a doctor accustomed to demon anatomy, nor could he seek aid from Heaven, or Hell, for that matter. _They had gotten them into this mess to begin with..._

Perhaps a vet would be a more appropriate choice? But then, that came with the unfortunate predicament of dealing with an over-excitable human screaming in the bookshop, in definite need of their mind being wiped clean. It was a messy affair, and Aziraphale had a troublesome habit of going a tad too far, usually robbing the poor bugger of days or weeks of memories, instead of a few hours.

With a sigh, the angel clicked his fingers, healing the slowly weeping gashes on his arm. _No._ He would have to call in the only humans he could trust for the job… and just pray that they would trust him in return.

On trembling legs, Aziraphale walked over to his desk, dialled one of the only numbers he had ever committed to memory… and _waited._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks! We are over the worst part of the 'hurt' aspect of this story! The next chapter will contain some graphic moments, but we will start sliding into the fluff and comfort soon enough! The road still won't be easy for our ineffable duo, but the process of recovery starts here. <3
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Thank you all for reading!


	6. The Occult, the Ethereal, and Human Incarnate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, we are FINALLY entering comfort territory! :D
> 
> WARNING: Non-sexual, non-consensual restraining is mentioned in this chapter. Please be aware of this before proceeding.

_Chapter 5: The Occult, the Ethereal, and Human Incarnate_

Aziraphale was sitting on a stool beside Crowley, bathing his feverish brow with a damp flannel, when he heard the knock at the door.

He wasted no time in sprinting over to greet his expected guests, who stood on the concrete steps of the bookshop, arms laden with small leather satchels that reeked of herbs and poultice.

“Anathema! Newton!” The angel exclaimed, ushering them inside with a friendly smile that felt somewhat foreign to him, given the circumstances. “I am truly grateful for your assistance! May I offer you some tea?”

“It’s good to see you too, Aziraphale.” Anathema replied with a small chuckle, but the worry in her eyes told the angel she was anything but humoured. “I would rather we save the refreshments for later, after we tend to... _whatever_ is wrong with Crowley.”

Newt shifted uncomfortably behind his finance, eyes widening as he gingerly settled one of the bags beside a precariously stacked tower of Jane Austin novels. The books swayed dangerously but rectified themselves after a rather uncharacteristic glare from their master.

“You sounded so worried over the phone. What happened to him?” Newt asked, fidgeting his fingers in concern.

Aziraphale paused, turning his head away with a clear look of discomfort. “Ah, well… that’s rather complicated.” 

Newt frowned, looking as though he might ask another question, but Anathema shushed him with a firm pod to the ribs. He let out an indignant squeak at the coarse treatment, but diligently kept from prying any further.

“It… it’ll be best if I show you.” Aziraphale murmured, gesturing toward the back of the bookshop, where the orb of divine light still hung suspended over Crowley’s prone form, its lustrous glow only serving to pale the demon even further. 

Without a word, the three companions picked their way toward him, appearing more like a procession of mourners beckoned to a funeral pyre; to the ghostly form that awaited in the shadows. Crowley snarled as he heard them approach, and Aziraphale held up a hand to warn them back again.

“I apologise. He’s not quite himself at the minute.”

The angel took a couple of hasty steps, though his face remained calm, placating. Crowley had become restless since their arrival, potentially having picked up on the scent of humans.

“He’s… hurt. _Rather terribly.”_ Aziraphale explained, shifting his gaze to the couple, who looked considerably more nervous than before. “I’ve dealt with _most_ of the injuries, but I need some help with his wings.”

Anathema boggled at them for a second, hazelnut eyes roaming over the expanse of bloodied feathers. She had never seen them before, despite having come to friendly terms with the demon. It had all seemed so very personal; a sight reserved for his angel, alone.

With a slow shake of her head, she reached out, fingertips teasing the tip of a loose primary.

A low growl pitched in Crowley's throat.

“What do you need us to do?” she asked, the guttural bray enough to snap her out of her stupor.

“Well, I require some assistance in keeping him still.” Aziraphale sighed, pointing to the pitiful state of the demon’s corporation. “He’s not exactly in a mind to be reasoned with, I’m afraid, so I’ll need some hands to secure him while I see to…” he fluttered his fingers over the brutalised wings. _“This…”_

The two humans considered the angel’s instructions for a moment, nodding as the responsibility of their task dawned.

“Is he… dangerous?” Newt piped up, voicing the unspoken question that seemed large enough to fill the room.

Aziraphale swallowed; coughed dryly. A clearing of the throat to conceal the lump that had formed there.

“He is _unaware_ of who we are. A temporary lapse of memory, I assure you. But it means he’ll likely put up a struggle. Though, in his weakened state, I have _no doubt_ it’s something either of you can’t handle!”

The angel flashed an unnaturally bright smile. It shone, in the same way that shattered glass reflects light, broken and bone-dust brittle. “I… I would never have called you if I believed there to be another way.”

Anathema frowned, but offered a small, apprehensive tilt of her chin as Newt raised a hand to pat Aziraphale on the shoulder, aiming for comfort but missing by a mile.

“Crowley’s our friend.” he murmured. “Anathema and I wouldn’t be here without him. Without _either_ of you.”

Tears burned at the edge of Aziraphale’s vision, and he blinked them away at the tremble of his lip. He hadn’t made a habit of befriending humans during his time on Earth. Their lives were a fleeting glimpse, the blink of an eye. But _these_ humans, they were… _special,_ the angel had decided then. They would be worth the heartache that came with finding company in mortals.

“Alright.” Aziraphale sniffed, tucking the sentiment aside for when he could dwell on it alone. He snatched a clean, cotton flannel from a nearby tray and tied it around Crowley’s mouth, wincing at the indignant yelp it caused. “I’ll need one of you to grab his legs, the other, his arms.”

The demon thrashed against the gag, elongated teeth gnawing at the material, but it held fast. Seeing that the demon was secure, Newt carefully leaned over Crowley’s chest, pinning his arms to his sides as Anathema grasped at his ankles, mindful not to tug at the cast securing his shin.

The demon let out a muffled roar of outrage, twisting like a crocodile caught in the mud of the Nile, but his wavering strength ebbed quickly, until all he could do was bellow his grief.

Returning to the wing he’d previously tended to, Aziraphale took the flailing appendage in his grasp, as delicate as one would hold that of a songbird. The recently-set bone needed to be splinted, but first loomed the ghastly task of removing broken feathers. The angel had pulled one of his own once, sometime in the middle ages when he’d snapped it during a particularly haphazard landing. The experience was not one he liked to be reminded of, the phantom pain of clipping one’s true form still fresh in his mind.

“Hold him steady.” Aziraphale commanded, as he gripped one of the bent primaries and dislodged it with a swift tug. He felt the demon jolt, heard the petrified squeals of surprise as Anathema and Newt were briefly tossed off their feet. Crowley shrieked, wing spasming as best it could to flutter away from him, but the angel was persistent. He gripped it firmly, pressing his thumb into the groove of skin where the quill once resided. Blood pooled about his finger, but gradually began to slow with the pressure, until nothing more than a few drops could escape.

“Bloody hell!” Newt gasped, looking even more ruffled than usual. He cast the demon a sympathetic glance as a whimper rippled through him, strangled and weak. “How many more are there?”

Aziraphale blinked, the answer leaden and heavy on his tongue. He turned to the pair, a broken look in his eyes. “I suggest you hold on tightly. We’ll be here for a while.”

***

The midday sun and risen lazily and begun its slow trudge toward the horizon by the time Aziraphale had seen Anathema and Newton on their way. They had left the bookshop looking far more frightful than the state in which they had entered, heads bowed and skin ashen from what they had endured, but pleased in the knowledge that they had come to the aid of a friend in need.

Now, in the hazy light of a London afternoon, with the door locked and the mangled piles of discarded feathers vanished by a strained miracle, Aziraphale carefully carried Crowley in his arms, listening to his pitching breaths as the demon slept fitfully, bandaged wings tied behind his back.

At the top of the stairs, the angel entered the second-floor apartment. It was a cramped and dusty living space he'd rarely used for anything other than storage, but came outfitted with a small bedroom he was now unceremoniously grateful for. With a snap of his fingers, he shifted the piles of books that had proclaimed the mattress their home over the years, and laid Crowley out on top of it, magicking up a bundle of soft, tartan pillows as an afterthought.

The demon whimpered at the loss of contact, face pinching and fingers grappling the quilts as they sought for the warmth of a body missed, but Aziraphale clutched his hand and nestled down beside him, letting the demon curl into the gentle bow of his chest.

Still, Crowley whined, eyes fluttering behind swollen lids as he dreamt of toiling things in the darkness of his mind.

“Hush now, my dear. It’s quite alright.” Aziraphale murmured, planting a kiss on the shell of his ear. “I’m here. You’re safe now. It’s over. It’s all over…”

_If only that were the truth._

***

Crowley awoke the next morning, stumbling into consciousness with a spasming wail of panic. Aziraphale was there, having not left his side since the night previous, and gently held him as the demon flailed against the sheets, body wriggling like an eel breached from the river. 

“Crowley! Crowley, my _dear!_ You’re in the bookshop. You’re _home.”_

Aziraphale felt tears prick at his eyes as the shriek raised in volume and pitch, and fangs found purchase in the fleshly curve of his forearm. He did not flinch. Did not even cry out. He just kept on muttering soothing words, watching as the fog in Crowley eyes began to dissipate, as through expelled by the scent of angelic blood.

“Ang-l?” He ground out, voice muffled and disorientated.

“There you are, my dearest boy.” Aziraphale sighed, stroking Crowley’s hair as he coaxed the incisors to release their grip. The demon let go with a warbling growl, but quickly fell silent, transfixed on the shimmer of golden ichor dripping onto the bedsheets.

“Oh… _oh_ …” He shifted his unsteady gaze from the blankets to the angel, serpentine tongue darting out to sample the blood on his lips. “Oh, I’m sssorr-y. I’m so s-sssssorry, I--”

Orbs of sunflower yellow became wet as Crowley blanched an anguished sob of noise, and Aziraphale tried his best to shush him, his voice firm and steady, drowning out the hissing apologies that rattled the small bedroom, frail as kitten’s mewling.

The demon cried for what seemed like an eon, the suffering in his tone enough to cause the doves of Soho to flee their rooftop perches, sensing the anguish that flowed from the shop like ripples from a stone tossed into the brine, disturbing the very fabric of the city. Aziraphale held him all the while, refusing to let go. He needed Crowley to understand that it wasn’t his fault, that he deserved so much worse for all the demon had suffered in the name of his sins.

Finally, Crowley began to quieten, the sobs strangling until he could no longer void them for the rawness of his throat. Aziraphale soothed his brow, feeling the heat there, and gently lay Crowley back against the pillows as he summoned up a damp cloth to dab at his skin.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” Aziraphale whispered. It felt a rather foolish question after everything they’d endured over the last few days, but it was all he could think to muster.

Crowley grimaced, the tears still falling as he mumbled. “S’hurts. Everywhere. My… my _wings…”_

“I know.” The angel cooed, wringing out the flannel, letting the cool droplets sap the heat from the demon’s fevered temples. He looked positively ghastly, flushed and radiating heat, and Aziraphale felt a spike of fear burrow in the pit of his stomach.

_Was Crowley ill? Had the damage to his true form weakened him somehow?_

As if in answer, Crowley began to wretch, a keening noise building between choking gasps as the angel rolled him onto his side, careful not to crush his cracked ribs.

“I… I feel sick…” Anthony gurgled, attempting to spill the contents of his stomach, but coming up empty. He hadn’t eaten in over a day. What meagre substance remained was hardly enough to evict from his hollow belly.

The angel patted him gently, rubbing soothing circles over his back, until Crowley finally sobbed, breathless from the effort. The sight physically pained Aziraphale, but he knew this was to be expected; understood the trials to come. All he could do now was prepare himself as best he could.

After several minutes, Anthony’s fever began to settle, the heat kept at bay by the coolness of the flannel. He nestled into Aziraphale’s side, head propped against the angel’s chest as he concentrated on steadying his breathing, willing his corporation to function despite the pain.

“You should sleep, my dear.” Aziraphale whispered, planting a feather-light kiss on the edge of Crowley’s mouth, where his skin lay unmarred.

The demon shook his head faintly, a single tear slipping as he uttered, “No. I don’t want to— I…I need--”

He stopped with an angry puff of breath, clamping his mouth shut so forcibly, his teeth clicked.

“C-can you read to me?” he murmured after a few moments, swollen eyelids drooping until all that could be seen were fine silvers of gold cut into the purple swells of his face. “Please… I need to hear your voice. I… I don’t want to alone.”

Aziraphale blinked, fighting back a fresh onslaught of tears. He had never heard Crowley so desperate. _Vulnerable._

“Of course, my dear. Any preference?”

The demon seemed to consider this, then shrugged. “S’anything you fancy. Just not Shakespeare. Real gloomy bastard, and a thief. Ripped his best lines off me.”

The angel couldn’t help but chuckle. In their infinitely long existence, it was one of the few things Crowley had refused to let go of, and Aziraphale had made it a tradition to tease the demon about the entire, ridiculous affair every decade or two... but not tonight. Instead, he reached down to a pile of books set neatly beside the bed and scooped up a hardback copy of Dickens. He opened the cover to little _whoosh_ of dust before wiggling into the mound of cushions to make himself more comfortable.

Aziraphale lost all concept of time as recounted the story, more from memory than ink, detailing the trails of a boy in London. The riveting, messy sprawl of his life, and the peculiar cast of characters who kept his company. 

By the time he'd uttered the final narration with a flourish to his words, moonlight filtered through the bedroom window, casting a silver slick against the sheets. Crowley lay still at Aziraphale’s side, unmoving but for the weak rise and dip of his chest, the small, scratchy puffs of a nose clogged with dried blood.

As carefully as he could, the angel closed the book and reached for his beside lamp, ready to dim the room for the evening, but was halted by a strained tugging on his wrist.

“Can you keep the light on?” Crowley gazed up at him, his voice barely a whisper, a hazy quality to his eyes. It was clear he’d been fighting off sleep, the slackening of exhaustion smoothing the pinched lines of tension from his face.

“Oh.” Aziraphale stumbled with a softening of his smile. “Of course, my love. Anything you need.”

He held him, squeezing gently; the delicate weight of gravity to anchor the demon as he finally drifted off into restless slumber.

“Anything at all.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, apologies for the delay! These last few weeks have been crazy, so the remaining updates will come a little less regularly than usual, but I will be making them longer to compensate for the extra wait! The story may very likely pick up an additional chapter too, just to wrap everything up without being rushed! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who comments or gives kudos! I really appreciate each and every one of you awesome people - and all my fantastic readers! :)


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